Paradise Lost
by Gimli's Pickaxe
Summary: 'If thou hearest the cry of the gull on the shore, Thy heart shall then rest in the forest no more.' After the war of the ring, Legolas returns home.


'_Legolas Greenleaf, long under tree,_

_In joy thou hast lived. Beware of the Sea!_

_If thou hearest the cry of the gull on the shore,_

_Thy heart shall then rest in the forest no more.'_

* * *

_Thy heart shall then rest in the forest no more._

The words came unbidden to him, like the words to some old, half-forgotten song. The Lady of the Golden Woods had warned him of the sea, had said that he should thereafter lose all joy under the boughs of his home. And she spoke truly, for the sea was deafening in his ears, but somehow Legolas felt that the words ran much deeper than that.

For he had been changed, and he was no longer the elf he had once been. And his home had changed too, and he had not been there to change with it.

Legolas reached out, trailing a finger along the rough bark of a half-burned tree. The enemy's last resort had been a malicious, cruel act, an act of bitter desparation, and the forest still reeked of burn. Legolas had seen many trees keeled over, scorched dark brown and black by the fumes, yet where he should have once heard the trees' wail of pain he now heard nothing.

Nothing, for the cry of the gulls mingled with the crashing waves in his mind, carrying him to new heights, bringing the salty tang of the sea to his nose. Nothing, for somehow his time away had changed these trees of his childhood as much as it had changed him, and their whispers were as a foreign language to him.

Legolas strode forward, careful, feeling as if he were a stranger in his own home, a hand ever resting on the hilt of his white knives. The faintest whisper in the air, and a figure emerged, naught but a faint shadow against the great trunk of an oak, and called out to him to identify himself.

Legolas started, for he had ever been the closest with the trees of his home; he heard their voices where some heard none, and they had ever warned him of anything that might catch him off his guard. And yet he had heard nothing today, no warning whisper from the trees, and they aided the hidden sentry where they did not aid him.

Again, a crash of briny waves, the faintest call of the gulls against his ear-drums, a flash of darkness as he remembered the carnage of Helm's Deep, the battle before the Black Gates. Then Legolas nodded, drawing back the hood of his traveling cloak, showing his distinctive golden hair and blue eyes so like the King's.

"Legolas Thranduilion," he said levelly, and the sentry nodded, for the resemblance to the Elvenking was indeed remarkable. But Legolas knew that the Sentry had not recognized his face. Legolas noted the face of the other elf as he continued down the narrow, worn trail. Young, younger even than he. Perhaps barely out of childhood, forced to the forefront by the recent war that had ravaged his home.

So what had befallen his old friends? Had they fallen, spilling their blood upon the floor of their childhood home?

Legolas knew not, and then again he felt like a stranger trespassing upon these lands. I am home, he mused, and yet I am not. I have returned - yet I have not.

_So then, do I still have a home to return to?_

It was a disturbing thought, and Legolas urged Arod into a canter.

* * *

Thranduil was as regal as ever. He reclined upon his throne of hewn stone, an oaken staff in one hand and his crown of evergreen leaves upon his winter-grass hair, resplendent in his robes of silk. Legolas gazed upon him for the longest of moments, and blue eyes met blue in an indefinite, unreadable clash.

This is my father, Legolas realized with a jolt, and I do not recognize him.

"Legolas of the Nine Walkers. You have truly returned a hero."

Thranduil's voice was even, the timbre rich and deep, yet Legolas felt the barest hint of unease upon it. Thranduil inclined is head, saying nothing for the longest moment, and Legolas pondered.

His father had a new weight in his eyes, the set of his jaws perhaps just a whisper more strained. His forest had battled in this war, too, he realized. He had heard talk of it, but he had never really understood. They had both fought, but they fought in different battles. They fought for different things.

I have returned a hero, Legolas realized. But I am not _their_ hero.

At long last, Thranduil held open his arms, inviting Legolas into an embrace. It held no passion, no exuberance, but Legolas could feel instead a soft strength, a relief not passed in words, ad yet at the same time an inexorable distance, a sense of otherness.

When he had volunteered his service upon the Quest, thoughts of how the Elvenking would react had rushed through Legolas' mind at blinding speeds. He thought of his father, swift in anger, harsh yet just, fiercely proud and fiercely loving. He would have my head, Legolas had thought. He would give me a tongue-lashing I would never forget in front of the entire court.

He remembered that thought, and looked upon this elf in front of him, quiet, composed, resigned, Does he blame me for what I have done? Does he fault me, his only son, for not being there in the Greenwood's greatest time of peril?

_I was not there. I was not there._

I have changed, and so have my father.

Thranduil's eyes held a look Legolas could not begin to fathom, emotions clashing against each other, swirling, swimming, in such an inscrutable way upon that blank face of his. Thranduil opened his mouth, as if th say something, then closed it again. And nodded a dismissal.

"You will join us at dinner," were the final words of parting.

"I shall," Legolas replied, and he turned, a silent cry of anguish twisting upon his features.

A crash of waves, a tang upon his nose, blue, an endless blueness as far as his eyes could stretch. A whisper upon his soul.

This was his father, and he did not know him.

It had been a long while, but Legolas's feet rememberd the way to his chambers as if in a distant dream. Legolas followed, half in a daze, running a hand upon the rough hewn stone of the Elvenking's halls.

An echo, of pebbles upon the sea-floor. Aragorn's smile ans his eyes crinkled and his beard twitched with mirth. Gimli's axe as it swirled towards an enemy.

This is my home, he told himself, bringing focus to his fingertips, that rough texture he would recognize anywhere. This is my home. I have come home.

And yet his words echoed emptily, against the faraway cries of the gulls.

* * *

A hand upon his shoulder, and Legolas spun with surprisingly fast reflexes, a hand already upon the hilt of a knife. And came face-to-face with an elf with coppery hair glinting in the dying sunlight, hands still poised as if to touch him but not quite, eyes wide in wonder.

"Legolas," his childhood friend whispered, his voice hoarse. "It really is you."

"Fimben," was all Legolas said. He stared at the friend he had known almost all his life. He still had that spark in those grey eyes of his, his fingers white and nimble, his form lithe and sprightly. And yet there was something, that something just beyond the sphere of recognition, that whispered in Legolas's mind : this is the face of a stranger. A stranger in the guise of old friend.

I know him – yet I know him not. And in that moment, something flitted across Fimben's eyes, and Legolas knew that he felt the same thing.

Fimben fell into step beside Legolas, and for all its strangeness it was strangely comforting. No words passed, for neither elf could think of anything to say, and silence hung heavily between them.

"The battle was hard here," Fimben remarked. "The Greenwood's greatest archer was sorely missed."

This he said with a hint of humour coloring his words, but it cut into Legolas as sharp as a whetted knife. Slow, agonizing, unrelenting.

Legolas averted his gaze. "I am sorry," he whispered, but he knew it was not enough.

How many lives might he have saved? Had he stayed, how many deaths could have been undone?

Several more steps, a twist into a sideways path, and Legolas stood before his chamber doors.

"What news of Hithren?" he asked after a short pause, hands on the door, resting but not yet pushing. "And – and Thandiel, and Anuven. I have been gone for so long."

"Hithren was blinded," said Fimben flatly. "Thandiel dead, Anuven succumbed to grief. You might meet Hithren later."

Then Legolas noticed the slightest limp upon his old friend's gait, and could not think of anything to say. Fimben departed with a mumbled farewell, and Legolas could nearly feel the silence stretching, weighing, writhing against his soul. He sank down upon the covers of his bed.

Again, the crinkle of Aragorn's smile, the faintest hint of the Sea.

_This is my home_, he whispered to himself, and his heart knew no joy.

* * *

Dusk fell upon the Greenwoods, bathing every tree and glade in a fey, silvery glow. Legolas watched the sun set, perched in the crook of an old beech. The tree swayed slightly, moved its branches so that Legolas might rest more comfortably, yet deep in his soul Legolas knew he had lost its song.

A crash of waves. Sea-spray against his face.

Legolas looked down upon the glade facing him, watched several elves flit back and forth on their everyday errands. Faces that recognized him yet knew him no more, faces of strangers. Unreadable masks behind familiar features.

For he had not been there for them, in their greatest time of need, and he was no longer their prince in heart. A hero only in name, of distant valorous deeds only remembered through whispers of gossip and the spinning of tales.

Again, Legolas turned towards the trees for solace, straining to seek peace in the rustling of branches, the dusk-light flitting through the leaves. The scent of earth after a spell of rain, birds whistling upon the boughs.

And yet he could not hear. He could not hear.

Waves crashing, deafening, majestic in the destruction they wrought. Legolas imagined himself borne away upon a massive wave, brought out to sea, smashing against dark rocks and breaking into a million shattered pieces only to be carried away upon a westering breeze, unfettered, free.

Again, an image of the Lady sprang unbidden to his mind, and he heard her voice, sweet, mellow, clear, as she spelled his death out before him.

Thy heart shall rest in the forest no more.

_Thy heart shall rest in the forest no more._

A faint cry of a gull; the faintest pull upon his soul.

_Thy heart shall rest in the forest no more._

* * *

A/N : Depressing, but somehow everything I write these days turns out as something of a tragedy... :( Somehow I have always thought of Legolas as one of the saddest members of the fellowship - I wonder why.

I sincerely hope that you have somewhat enjoyed the story (I enjoyed writing it!) and please, if you did, leave a review! It really, really makes my day and makes me a happier person. It might even motivate me to abstain me from writing Angst. :D


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